


The Case of the Strangled Counterfeiter

by Small_Hobbit



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson is feeling melancholy, but things start to improve when Lestrade comes to discuss his case with Holmes. A case that will confuse even Holmes at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Strangled Counterfeiter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for gowerstreetcat as part of the Spring 2015 ACD Holmes Fanworks Exchange.
> 
> My grateful thanks to my beta Canon Is Relative.

I had not seen much of Holmes for the past week. The recent days had been dreary and the weather had discouraged me from leaving our rooms, unless it was necessary. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed energised and I had concluded he was dealing with at least one case at present, if not more, although he had not made specific mention of any of them.

I looked out of the window, watching the passers-by skirting round the puddles on the pavements, and the fallen leaves being churned into mulch by the horses’ hooves. Autumn always left me feeling melancholy, and this year it seemed worse than ever. The summer had seen the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Maiwand. I had not chosen to mark the date, but, for the few weeks after, my nightmares had returned with a ferocity I hadn’t experienced since I first moved to Baker Street.

At the same time, we had experienced a couple of weeks of hot weather, which had encouraged all the germs to come out of hiding in the narrow streets of the poorer parts of the city. Two of my colleagues were hard pressed to deal with their patients as the infections rapidly travelled out into the wealthier areas, and I had offered my assistance. Fortunately I did not catch anything myself, but the combination of poor sleep and long days inevitably caught up with me, and my weakened constitution finally gave out. I had spent the first half of September either asleep in my bed or resting on the sofa and, although I had finally regained my strength, I could not share Holmes’ enthusiasm for life.

I turned from my perusal of the view from the window when I heard a knock on the door. Mrs Hudson had been most assiduous in protecting me from unwanted callers, so I felt sure this was a friend. I called out to enter, and Inspector Lestrade came in. He had clearly left his outer garments downstairs, but his face still showed the evidence of his having been out in the rain earlier.

I greeted him warmly and suggested he stand in front of the fire to better dry his trousers. He accepted the offer with alacrity and for a few minutes we both stood there, discussing items in the news and the prospects for the next Ashes season, given England’s excellent performance in the Test matches that summer. Lestrade made no mention of his reason for calling, so I assumed he had come to see Holmes.

He did not have very long to wait. Holmes came into our rooms and said, “Ah, Inspector, I am glad to see you here. I have good news for you.”

“I have news for you, too,” Lestrade replied. “But it is not good. Charles Wright is dead.”

“What? That’s not possible. There has to be some mistake.”

“No mistake. His sister has identified the body. He’s been strangled.”

Holmes joined us by the fire. “Do we know when he was killed? I saw him board a train for Exeter not long before two o’clock. I suppose it would be possible for him to have left the train at Reading and returned to London, but it does not seem likely.”

“The body was found shortly after one. So unless you have been following a ghost, Mr Holmes, the man you saw board the train was not Charles Wright.”

“Can I see the body, or has it already been released to the sister?”

“The body is still at the morgue. The sister’s been told to arrange for an undertaker to collect him tomorrow morning, so if you want to see it, we should go now.”

“Right.” Holmes stood up. “Come along, Watson. We may need your assistance.”

***

Holmes remained silent while we were in the cab, considering all the possibilities. Lestrade, however, was happy to engage in conversation and began to tell me about Charles Wright.

“Wright worked for one of the small artisan workshops which manufactures cheap trinkets,” Lestrade began. “He also had a profitable sideline in making counterfeit jewellery.”

Holmes grunted at this point.

“Technically it wasn’t counterfeit, in that no crime was committed.” I must have looked confused, because Lestrade continued, “A gentleman, who wishes to pawn some jewels when in a spot of financial bother, arranges for a duplicate set to be made so his wife can continue to wear the jewellery to important functions and be none the wiser. And whilst conspiring to mislead a man’s wife might be morally questionable, it is not illegal.”

“So far, so good,” I said.

“There were a couple of occasions when the impecunious gentleman had then arranged for the theft of the replacement jewellery, in the hope of making an insurance claim. However, the pawnbrokers who held the originals had both come forward to prove the jewels were already in their possession at the time of the robbery, since they did not wish to be implicated in the crime.”

“But something changed?” I asked. “I cannot see anything you have said thus far would result in murder.”

“Yes,” Lestrade replied. “It would appear Wright had begun to branch out.”

“Indeed,” Holmes joined in our conversation. “I was approached three weeks ago, by a client who had taken a necklace (a family heirloom) for valuation. He was not happy to be informed the necklace was a copy and came storming round to me, demanding I sort it out for him.”

“I don’t remember this,” I said.

“You were out – it was at the height of the epidemic. I was not inclined to take the case, until the man let slip the valuer had mentioned he had heard of a similar occurrence a week or so before. I have to admit I was intrigued and agreed to speak to the valuer. He referred me to his colleague and following a brief conversation with him I was able to ascertain who his client had been. Accordingly, I began my enquiries.”

“With the grooms and other staff,” I said. “I recall seeing you departing one evening in your ostler’s outfit.”

I am not sure Holmes was particularly impressed with my reference to his outfit, but nevertheless he continued. “Correct. I was able to establish in both cases a Charles Wright had been a visitor at the residences where the substitution had occurred. Lestrade had confirmed to me this was indeed the name of the man most likely to have made the replacement jewellery and yesterday one of the maids with whom I had become quite friendly told me she had seen Wright leaving another house. Accordingly, I waited for him close to that location and followed him until the point at which he made his departure on the train.”

I could see Lestrade wished to dispute this last point, but we had reached the morgue and therefore our conversation drew to a close.

The constable on duty saluted Lestrade and indicated where to find Wright’s body.

We had scarcely entered the room when Holmes exclaimed, “That is not Charles Wright!”

Lestrade looked surprised at this. “As I told you, Mr Holmes, his sister identified the body.”

I looked from Lestrade to Holmes. “I suppose the shock of learning of her brother’s death, might cause her to make a mistake,” I ventured.

“Even you don’t believe that, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “And the neighbour who found the body had already identified him. The sister only provided the formal identification.”

Holmes glared at the body, as if the corpse had deliberately chosen to annoy him by being someone other than the person he expected. “Can I speak to the sister?” he asked.

Lestrade looked slightly dubious, but nevertheless asked the constable to give us her address. The area the morgue was situated in was not one where we were likely to find a cab, but Holmes did not seem bothered. Fortunately it was no longer raining, although the air felt damp and the wind was cold. Holmes set off at a brisk pace down the road and only slowed when he realised I was having trouble keeping up with him. Even once I had drawn level he refrained from conversation and it was clear he was considering various scenarios. None would be rejected until he had further information, although some would be more plausible than others.

Wright’s sister lived in a neat little two up, two down house, in a slightly better class of location than her brother. She answered the door herself and invited us into the parlour.

“We have come to speak about Charles Wright,” Holmes began.

“Chas isn’t here,” she began.

“We understand,” I said, “And we are sorry to hear of your loss.”

At this she found her pocket handkerchief and began sniffing, muttering about her poor Charlie.

I had expected Holmes to add a word of commiseration, before questioning her about her dead brother, but instead he said, “Thank you, Mrs Wright, we won’t trouble you any more at this time.”

She wiped her eyes and showed us the door.

“What was all that about, Holmes?” I began, as we started to head back towards the morgue.

“Come Watson, we must hurry,” was all Holmes would say.

Once more he set off at a pace which was too fast for me. I followed as best I could, and managed to keep him in sight. There was a post office at the corner of the street and I saw Holmes dash inside. By the time I had arrived he had presumably already sent a telegram. I heard him instructing a small boy to run to the morgue with a message for Inspector Lestrade.

Holmes had looked up on my entry. “Here, Watson,” he said, “Let me see if I can find you a chair.”

One was produced from the back of the shop, I did not see by whom, and I gratefully sat down.

“I have sent word to Lestrade to find a cab and collect us. There is nothing more to be done now and you, my good fellow, need to return to Baker Street.”

“But, Holmes ...”

At that point a cab drew up outside the post office. Lestrade hopped down and then waited patiently whilst Holmes assisted me into the cab, before joining us. As we journeyed back to our lodgings Lestrade attempted to persuade Holmes to tell him the news, but Holmes maintained his silence.

I believe I must have dozed slightly, for it did not seem long before the cab had halted outside our front door and Holmes was once again assisting me down.

As we entered our house, Holmes was greeted by Mrs Hudson saying, “Mr Holmes, a telegram has just come for you.”

“Excellent, Mrs Hudson. Tea for three please, and some crumpets would go nicely with it.”

Mrs Hudson tutted, but went to fulfil the request.

Holmes ripped the telegram open, smiled and passed it over to Lestrade, who read it out loud. “Charles Wright arrested. Sergeant Miller. Exeter police.”

“Still pursuing your Charles Wright, then?” Lestrade asked. “Just who is he in truth?”

Holmes merely smiled enigmatically and waited until Mrs Hudson had arrived with the tea.

Once the tea had been poured and we were enjoying the crumpets, Holmes finally began, “To answer your question first Lestrade, my Charles Wright truly is Charles Wright. He is also guilty of murdering his namesake.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Holmes, do not jest about such matters. Surely such a thing would be impossible.”

“Unlikely, perhaps,” Holmes agreed, “But not impossible. There must be thousands of Wrights in London, and we all know several men named Charles, so undoubtedly there will be many Charles Wrights in the city.”

Lestrade and I exchanged looks and Lestrade said, “So you are saying one Charles Wright killed a second Charles Wright?”

Holmes permitted himself a small chuckle at our confusion, before continuing. “I first became suspicious when I asked the constable for the name of the dead Charles Wright’s sister. His answer was Mrs Evangeline Wright. Now, I know precision is not always the case with some constables and many refer to women as Mrs when they reach a certain age, but to my ear he was repeating exactly what she had said and therefore it was a possible pointer. Then, when we spoke to the lady in question, she mentioned both Chas and Charlie. Of course a man may go by more than one version of his name, as for example, William may be known as Bill or Will, but not generally both. In this case the victim’s given name was Charles.”

“So,” I said thoughtfully, “Much as I served with two William Smiths, one of whom was known as Will Smith, one as Bill Smith. It was the only way of telling them apart.”

“Precisely,” Holmes replied. “Here we have Charlie, the brother, who made the fake jewellery and Chas, the husband, who was using it to replace what he had stolen.”

Lestrade looked thoughtful. “And there was an argument, perhaps the brother, Charlie, wanted to stop or wanted a larger share of the proceeds?”

“This was not a sudden argument resulting in a spur of the moment crime, this was pre-meditated. Chas collected a suitcase from Left Luggage before he caught the train. Initially I had assumed he had some of the jewellery inside it, but I wonder now whether he had planned on not returning.”

“Leaving his wife behind?” Lestrade sounded incredulous.

“Only for a few days. She would have sufficient time to bury her brother and then follow her husband.”

Holmes then paused, deep in thought. “Wait! Of course! That is what they were planning to do. Wright must have left the jewellery in a package somewhere. Mrs Wright will go to collect it. She will act the part of the grieving widow and produce the death certificate, with Charles Wright’s name on it. A sympathetic clerk will release the package and Mr and Mrs Wright begin a new life elsewhere.”

“Very impressive, Holmes,” Lestrade said. “Once again I am glad you have decided to detect crime rather than commit it. I fear, should you have done so, we would have been hard pressed to trap you.”

Holmes nodded his gratitude at this compliment.

As Lestrade turned, ready to take his leave of us, he glanced out of the window. “Autumn is certainly upon us now,” he said. “It brings back memories of this time last year, when we three were in Dartmoor, chasing after that accursed hound.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “And perhaps it is time for me to begin to write up the story.”

I looked over at Holmes, to find him smiling and nodding his approval.


End file.
